Chapter 7: The Emperor's Desk
The western wing smelled of dust and disuse, with an underlying note of cedar from the chests lining the walls. It was smaller, as Van had said. Colder. The single entrance was a heavy door of reinforced blackwood, currently open as two silent guards from Van’s personal retinue carried in a last few items: a simple basin, a rolled mat for meditation, a crate of Taichi’s few belongings.
Taichi stood by the narrow window, looking out at a walled courtyard where a single, stunted pear tree struggled for light. Defensible. One entrance. It was a beautiful cage.
Van arrived as the guards left, closing the door behind them with a solid thud. He wore his military-leaning attire, dark leathers and a close-fitting tunic, his silver hair tied back sharply. He surveyed the room, then Taichi by the window.
“It’s not the Imperial chambers,” he said, his voice filling the spare space.
“No,” Taichi agreed softly, not turning. “It’s quieter.”
He heard Van approach, felt the heat of him at his back. Van’s hands settled on his hips, possessive and firm. “You are safe here. The guards outside this door answer only to me. Anya’s little spies can’t touch you.”
“It’s not my safety I question,” Taichi murmured, leaning back into the solid chest. “It’s my usefulness. Locked away like a treasure in a vault.”
Van’s lips brushed the shell of his ear. “You are useful where I put you.” His hands slid around, one splaying low on Taichi’s belly. “And you are a treasure. My treasure.”
His touch was a claim. It always was. Taichi let his head loll back against Van’s shoulder, exposing his throat. A silent offering. Van took it, his mouth hot and demanding on the sensitive skin, his teeth scraping just enough to promise a mark. His other hand cupped Taichi through his trousers, a rough, knowing pressure.
“Is this why you came?” Taichi asked, breath hitching. “To inspect your investment?”
“I came,” Van said, spinning him around, “because I wanted to.” He kissed him then, a deep, consuming invasion that tasted of power and clove. It wasn’t tender. It was a branding. When he pulled back, his blue eyes were dark. “Get on the bed.”
It wasn’t the lavish jade monstrosity of the main chambers. This was a simpler, sturdy frame. Taichi obeyed, lying back on the cool covers. He watched as Van unbuckled his leathers, pushing them down just enough to free his cock, already hard and flushed. Van didn’t undress further. The implication was clear: this was a visit, not a stay.
He knelt on the bed, looming over Taichi. “Open your mouth.”
Taichi did, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. Van positioned himself, one hand braced on the headboard, the other guiding himself. He didn’t push in slowly. He fed his cock into Taichi’s mouth with a single, firm thrust, hitting the back of his throat immediately.
Taichi gagged, eyes watering. Van held himself there, deep, his tip nudging the tight ring of his esophagus. “Suck,” he commanded, his voice tight.
Taichi relaxed his jaw, letting his mouth go slack and wet. He hollowed his cheeks, drawing back until just the head remained, then swallowed him down again, letting the obscene, wet noises fill the quiet room. He looked up, meeting Van’s gaze. The Emperor was watching him, a muscle ticking in his jaw, his breath coming faster.
“Good,” Van grunted. He began to move, setting a slow, deep rhythm. “Such a pretty fucking mouth. Made for this.”
Taichi moaned around him, the vibration drawing a low growl from Van. His own arousal was a sharp, insistent ache, but he knew better than to touch himself. This was about Van’s pleasure, Van’s control. He took him deeper, letting his throat open, accepting each thrust until his nose pressed into the coarse hair at Van’s base. Spit dripped from the corners of his mouth, slicking his chin.
Van’s control began to fray. His thrusts became harder, less rhythmic. He fisted a hand in Taichi’s hair, holding him still as he fucked into his throat with short, sharp jabs. “You swallow everything I give you, don’t you, whore?”
Taichi couldn’t answer, could only gasp for air when Van pulled back slightly. He nodded, frantic.
“Everything,” Van repeated, a dark promise. His hips stuttered, his rhythm breaking. Taichi felt him swell, pulse. With a final, deep shove, Van came, his release flooding Taichi’s throat in hot, bitter spurts. Taichi swallowed convulsively, each gulp a deliberate act of submission. Van held his head in place until he was spent, then pulled out with a soft, wet sound.
He looked down at Taichi, who lay panting, lips swollen and glistening. Van smoothed his thumb over Taichi’s cheek, wiping away a stray trace of spit and come.
“Tomorrow,” Van said, his voice rough but already returning to its usual calculated calm, “I will send for you. To the private study. I have dispatches to read.” He leaned down, his lips brushing Taichi’s forehead. “You will kneel under the desk. You will not make a sound unless I tell you to.”
He stood, tucking himself back into his leathers, buckling them with precise movements. The Emperor had returned, the moment of raw need now buried under imperial duty. He walked to the door, pausing with his hand on the latch.
“Sleep well,” he said, without looking back.
The door opened and closed, the lock turning with a definitive click.
Taichi lay still in the deepening gloom. The taste of Van lingered in his mouth. His mind, however, was elsewhere, parsing Van’s words. The private study. Under the desk. A place where Van conducted business, met with advisors, read intelligence. A place where Anya’s spies, no matter how desperate, could not see.
A slow smile spread across Taichi’s face. He brought a hand to his own throat, feeling the tender stretch there. Van saw a cage. Taichi saw an opportunity. To listen. To learn. To become more than just a body in a secured room.
He curled onto his side, facing the door. The taste was a reminder. The click of the lock, a challenge.